Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set

by Allan Leverone

  With no form of security.

  American intelligence officials had long been aware of this security weakness and had been waiting for the right time to exploit it. Tracie thought the current situation fit the bill perfectly. She wasn’t sure Aaron Stallings would agree—was virtually certain the CIA director would disagree, in fact—so she hadn’t yet bothered checking in with her contact. Failing to receive permission was a whole different ballgame than asking for it and being denied.

  The last Tracie knew, Soviet Ambassador Grinkov had not missed a weeknight meal at the Heart of Moscow in months. She had remained as current as possible with intelligence reports while completing rehab for the wounds she suffered in her life-and-death struggle on the roof of the Minuteman Mutual building in June, and while she had no way of knowing for certain that Grinkov would be here tonight, it was well worth spending a couple of hours to find out.

  After leaving the Hoover Building and before getting into her car, Tracie had walked straight to a phone booth on the corner of Ninth and D Streets and called in a dinner reservation for one at the Heart of Moscow. It would have been quicker and easier to do it from one of the many phones at FBI Headquarters, but there was no way in the world she was going to leave a record of that particular call.

  Now, as she navigated the crowded sidewalk, Tracie reached up and removed the barrette that had been holding her hair in a bun. The conservative style she had sported for the FBI briefing was the exact opposite of what she wanted to achieve now. Her thick mane of lustrous red hair tumbled over her shoulders and she shook it out, then pulled it all to one side where it caressed her neck and nestled softly against her right breast.

  The temperature was still warm as the late-summer sun began to fall below the horizon. Tracie opened her blazer and unfastened the top two buttons of her sharply creased white blouse. She glanced down and muttered, “Ah, what the hell,” and unbuttoned a third. The blouse was not exactly sheer, but with a hint of a lacy bra that would show every time she leaned forward, Tracie felt she stood a good chance of getting Grinkov’s attention. She wished her skirt were a little shorter, but there was nothing she could do about that. When the time came, she would make sure to flash plenty of leg.

  Her heels clicked on the pavement and she picked up her pace. She wanted to be in place at the Heart of Moscow prior to the arrival of Grinkov’s dinner party, should he show up. At the café’s entrance, she adopted a sultry expression and, affecting a thick Russian accent, said to the hostess, “You have reservation for me, yes? The name, Ekatarina Zharykhin?”

  The hostess, a young raven-haired woman Tracie took for a Washington-area college student earning extra spending money, eyed her coolly. It was the look women reserve for other women they believe are dressed inappropriately. Tracie resisted the urge to smile. Perfect, she thought. The hooker persona is working.

  The hostess took her time answering, leaving no doubt her message of disapproval was received loud and clear. Finally she said, “Will anyone be joining you for dinner, Miss Zharykhin?”

  Tracie smiled wickedly. “The reservation is for one, but who knows how night will progress, eh?”

  “Right this way, please.” The overmatched hostess took one final glance at Tracie’s low-cut blouse, met her eyes and then looked away, before leading her to a tiny table near the back of the restaurant. It was exactly where Tracie had known she would be seated, as it was the only place in the dining room with tables small enough to seat a single diner.

  It was also the perfect location from which to intercept Ambassador Grinkov. He would have to walk directly past her table to reach the men’s room, and once he started drinking vodka, it would only be a matter of time before he made that journey.

  Tracie eased into her seat and ordered a drink. All she had to do now was wait.

  9

  Tuesday, September 8, 1987

  8:20 p.m.

  Heart of Moscow Café, Washington, D.C.

  Tracie was lingering over dessert when she got her chance. The restaurant had filled up shortly after her arrival and had remained busy ever since, and she was beginning to fear the staff would ask her to leave before Grinkov made his first trip to the men’s room.

  And then, there he was.

  Anatoly Grinkov was a bear of a man, with thick black hair and a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard he wore in a perpetual two-day growth, à la Don Johnson in Miami Vice. He appeared from around a corner, walking in a direct line toward the men’s room like a man on a mission. He didn’t stumble, didn’t zigzag or look in any way impaired, but a trace of an alcohol flush colored his face and, to Tracie, his eyes looked a touch glassy.

  She waited until he was almost past her table before hiking her skirt halfway up her thighs and sliding out of her seat. She thrust her left leg out so that her bare knee just grazed the passing ambassador’s shin, rubbing his leg through his dress pants. “Oh,” she said, feigning surprise, still employing her thick Russian accent. “Excuse me, Comrade Grinkov, I did not see you coming!”

  Grinkov glanced down at her and did a comical double take. Tracie watched as his eyes traveled up her legs. They lingered at the hem of her skirt, which had ridden even higher as she slid out of her seat, before examining her cleavage and finally reaching her eyes.

  He stopped, seeming to forget his intention to use the men’s room, and said, “How do you know who I am?” His tone indicated that of course she would know who he was, but that these little games must be played out.

  Tracie didn’t mind. “Everyone knows Anatoly Grinkov,” she said, her voice a seductive purr. She ran a fingertip over the rim of her vodka glass and then lifted it to her lips, where she sucked off the moisture. Grinkov’s eyes tracked her finger’s journey. “The name ‘Grinkov’ means ‘power’ to me,” she whispered, “and power is so . . . seductive. . .”

  She lifted her eyes to Grinkov’s face, parted her lips and ran her tongue over them slowly. The Soviet ambassador smiled widely and said, “Come with me.” Then he turned his back and strode down the hallway toward the rest rooms, apparently never considering the possibility she might not follow.

  Tracie glanced around the restaurant. One of the reasons the Soviet embassy personnel favored the Heart of Moscow, in addition to its fine food and authentic Russian vodka, was the layout of the dining area. Every table, even singles like the one where Tracie had been seated, was surrounded by heavily polished walnut barriers rising virtually to the ceiling. Thus, the dining room could be filled and still the diners at each table were afforded the utmost privacy.

  She smiled and hurried after the Soviet ambassador, catching up to him just as he reached the restroom doors. The ladies room was on the left side of the hallway, the men’s on the right. Grinkov leaned right and pushed the door open, took a quick glance inside the lavatory, then turned back to Tracie with a grin that she assumed was supposed to be seductive but looked downright creepy. “Time to enjoy some of that ‘power,’ eh?” he said before he disappeared into the lavatory.

  Tracie glanced one more time down the hallway—still empty—and then followed the horny politician into the bathroom. It was scrupulously clean, with gleaming pale blue ceramic tiles on the walls and a floor that looked as though you could eat off it. Four urinals lined one wall, and beyond those fixtures were four toilets enclosed inside stalls separated by the typical institutional portable metal dividers running nearly floor to ceiling.

  Grinkov stood in front of the farthest stall, creepy grin still plastered across his slightly drunk face. Tracie could see his suit trousers slightly tented and knew he was anxious to get started.

  She pretended to be hesitant. “Comrade Grinkov,” she said. “Right here? What if someone comes in?”

  He laughed like a man who had had this conversation many times. Probably he had. “No one will care, darling, and if they do, I will pay for their entire meal. They will leave here happier than when they came in, trust me. The Americans call it ‘profit motive,’ da?”

/>   Tracie forced a giggle and ran her eyes up and down Grinkov’s body before following him into the stall. She turned and engaged the lock, while behind her, she heard Soviet Amabassador Anatoly Grinkov’s fly unzip. She turned back to the Russian and sank to her knees while he very helpfully removed himself from his trousers.

  This was the critical part of the operation. On her knees in front of him, Tracie was as close to defenseless as she was comfortable allowing herself to get. She had to ensure he remained preoccupied for just a couple more seconds.

  She smiled hungrily and held his gaze, locking eyes with the bureaucrat while her right hand snaked around her back and under her linen jacket. She slipped her fingers under the waistband of her skirt, wrapping them around her tactical combat knife that was held securely in its leather scabbard sewn into a belt that wound around her waist. It made for a slightly uncomfortable fit, but Tracie didn’t care. When needed, it was the perfect fashion accessory.

  “What are you waiting for?” Grinkov growled. “My time is precious.”

  Tracie pretended to admire him. “You are very well endowed,” she said, still in the thick Russian accent she had been affecting since entering the Heart of Moscow, but now she dropped the pretense and finished in her normal American dialect. “What are you going to do when it’s gone?”

  In an instant, she brought the combat knife out from behind her back and held it against Anatoly Grinkov’s member, which immediately lost some of its luster. Not to mention size. “What do you think you are doing?” he said slowly, his voice low and menacing.

  “Mr. Ambassador, we need to talk,” Tracie said calmly. She rose to her feet, maintaining the knife’s hair’s breadth distance from the man’s organ. Despite his intimidating tone, Grinkov had yet to move a muscle.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, and then, without waiting for a reply, added, “I have nothing to say to you, whoever you are.”

  “We’ll see about that,” she said, her voice quiet but determined. “Now, very carefully, zip yourself up.” She removed the knife from his crotch and before he could react, slid the razor-sharp blade under the back of his suit jacket, pressing it lightly against his spine. “Keep in mind that if you make one move I interpret as threatening, I’ll gut you like a trout before you even know what hit you. Do you understand, Mr. Amabassador?”

  Grinkov glared at her, hesitating only a moment before saying, “I understand.”

  “Good. We’re going to leave the restroom and turn right. Then we’ll walk down the hallway, through the bar and out the back entrance. Attempt to signal anyone and you die. Scream or yell or even breathe heavy and you die. Move in any way I don’t like, and what do you think happens?”

  “I understand,” Grinkov spat, refusing to say the words.

  “Let’s go, then.” Tracie knew time was precious. Grinkov had obviously pulled his Lothario routine many times before, so his security would not begin to get suspicious about his absence for a few more minutes, but the Russian’s idea of romance wasn’t exactly a drawn-out affair. Before too much more time passed, his security team would send someone to find him. When he wasn’t located, the Heart of Moscow Café would be locked down like Folsom Prison within seconds.

  The odd-looking pair shuffled to the men’s room door and exited. To anyone who didn’t look too closely, they would resemble a romantic couple walking through the bar, the young woman with her arm around her lover’s back.

  She hoped.

  Ambassador Anatoly Grinkov was a regular here, so many people would recognize him if they were paying attention. There was definitely some risk involved. But the walk through the darkened lounge to the seldom-used rear entrance was a short one, and Tracie felt reasonably confident her bold play would work.

  It did. Within seconds, they had pushed through the Heart of Moscow’s back door and into the still-cooling night. The sun had long since set and lighting was minimal. Tracie felt the most dangerous part of the operation was now behind her.

  And Anatoly Grinkov stopped walking.

  “I am not going one step farther,” he said, seeming to realize the farther away from his security detail he got, the worse his situation became.

  In an instant, Tracie had pulled the knife out from behind the big Russian and grabbed his left wrist with her left hand. She stepped nimbly behind him and twisted his arm back and to the right, pulling it taut, his hand now immobilized painfully up near his shoulder blades.

  With her right hand, she reached around and placed the tip of the combat knife against the ambassador’s ample belly. The entire maneuver was completed in a single eye blink. “Walk or die,” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s your choice.”

  The Russian held his ground for a moment and Tracie increased the knife’s pressure. She felt it slice through his dress shirt and t-shirt. He gasped as it drew blood, and then he began moving again, trudging forward like a condemned man on his way to the gallows.

  Good. That was what she wanted him to think. She knew he would never talk otherwise.

  10

  Tuesday, September 8, 1987

  9:00 p.m.

  The White House

  The mood inside the Oval Office had not improved over the course of the day.

  The same participants as this morning—with one notable exception—had gathered for another situation briefing, and there was no good news to report to a president who was becoming increasingly frustrated.

  Briefing packages were passed around. Included in each were copies of another photograph of Secretary of State J. Robert Humphries as well as the recently received list of the kidnappers’ demands.

  The list was handwritten.

  In Russian.

  Each briefing package included a typed translation placed directly below the photocopy of the list of demands.

  As tense as the morning’s presidential briefing had been, this one was much more so. CIA Director Aaron Stallings almost felt sorry for his FBI counterpart, Matt Steinman, because before Steinman could even begin, President Reagan said, “I want at least one bit of good news I can bring to Sara Humphries when I leave here. Someone had better tell me we’ve made progress locating J.R. Can anyone tell me that?”

  The image of the kind grandfatherly figure Americans had twice voted for, the man quick with a smile and a quip, was absent tonight. Instead, the president appeared angry and worried as he sat behind his desk, his face set and determined even as his age lines seemed a little deeper than they had just a few hours ago.

  “Well, Mr. President, there is cause for optimism,” Steinman said. “This latest communication from the kidnappers confirms our earlier conclusion that the Soviets are indeed holding the secretary of state.”

  “Cause for optimism,” Reagan repeated. “How so? Do we know where J.R. is being held? Do we know how we’re going to get him back?”

  “Well, no, sir,” Steinman said, unconsciously reaching under his collar and pulling it away from his perspiring neck.

  “Then, would you please explain why in the hell I should feel optimistic about anything?”

  “Well, sir, now that we have direct confirmation that the Soviets are involved, we can begin putting pressure on them to release the secretary of state. They have to know that doing anything other than turning him over to us alive and well will be cause for war. I think everyone in this room would agree that’s an outcome nobody wants, especially not the Soviets, and especially not at this point in time.”

  Reagan’s eyes had been narrowing steadily as Steinman talked, and now he glared at the FBI director. Watching the exchange from the far end of the Oval Office, Aaron Stallings was intrigued. He didn’t particularly like either man, but as someone who had been on the receiving end of Ronald Reagan’s wrath, he could sympathize with Matt Steinman’s position: forced to give bad news to a president who didn’t want to hear it.

  “That’s your good news?” Reagan thundered. “We know the Soviets have kidnapped our secretary of state, but we don’t ha
ve any idea where he’s being held? Hell, they won’t even officially admit to having him! How is any of that cause for optimism?”

  “Sir,” Steinman said. “I think it’s fair to say the list of demands we received a few minutes ago eliminates any possibility we should take Gorbachev’s denials seriously.”

  “About this list,” a perplexed Ronald Reagan said after quickly reviewing the briefing package. He flicked his gaze from the package to Steinman’s face and back again. “This is something else that makes no sense to me. The Soviet Union wants us to begin immediately disassembling our European strategic nuclear weapons arsenal? That’s ludicrous!”

  “That was our reaction as well, Mr. President.”

  “That subject’s been under negotiation for years,” Reagan continued, as if the FBI director had not even spoken. “The Soviets know it’s not in our interest to remove even some of those weapons, never mind all of them. Has Gorbachev lost his mind? And why would he officially deny involvement in the kidnapping if he planned to hit us with these demands just a few hours later?”

  Stallings cleared his throat before he spoke. “Mr. President, perhaps General Secretary Gorbachev is unaware of the Soviet involvement. The Communists’ grip on power is slipping. The world is changing rapidly. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that another faction inside Russia has taken Secretary Humphries.”

  “But to what end? It’s beyond belief that any faction would think we would accede to demands as sweeping as these. Even as close as I am with J.R., I could never put our friendship ahead of the safety and security of our European allies.”

  “Apparently someone has decided to test your resolve on that issue, sir.”

  The president glared at Matt Steinman as if perhaps the FBI director himself had written the ransom demands. Despite the gravity of the situation, Aaron Stallings had to stifle a smile as the outmatched Steinman tried to meet Reagan’s stare, only to drop his eyes after a second or two.